In Far Bolivia Part 32

"And dis, sah. What you callee he? Mind, mind, no touchee de point!

He poison, notwidstanding."

It was a thin bamboo cane tipped with a fine-pointed nail.

Bill waited for him to explain.

He condescended to do so at last.

"Long time ago I runee away from de cannibal Indians notwidstanding. I young den, I fat, I sweet in flesh. Sometime my leg look so nice, I like to eat one little piecee ob myse'f. But no. Charlie not one big fool. But de chief tink he like me. He take me to him tent one day, den all muchee quickee he slaves run in and take up knife. Ha, ha! I catchee knife too, notwidstanding. Charlie young and goodee and plenty mooch blood fly.

"I killee dat chief, and killee bof slaves. Den I runned away.

"Long time I wander in de bush, but one day I come to de tents ob de white men. Dey kind to poh Charlie, and gib me work. I lub de white man; all same, I no lub Ma.s.sa Peter."

He paused to puff at a fresh cigarette.

"And," he added, "I fine dat poison berry and dat leetle poison spear in place where Ma.s.sa Peter sleep."

"Ho, ho!" said Bill.

Charlie grew a little more excited as he continued: "As shuah as G.o.d madee me, de debbil hisself makee dat bad man Peter. He wantee killee poh Brawn. Dat what for, notwidstanding."

Now although there be some human beings--they are really not worth the name--who hate dogs, every good-hearted man or woman in the world loves those n.o.ble animals who are, next to man, the best and bravest that G.o.d has created.

But there are degrees in the love people bear for their pets. If a faithful dog like Brawn is constantly with one, he so wins one's affection that death alone can sever the tie.

Not only Roland, but d.i.c.k also, dearly loved Brawn, and the bare idea that he was in danger of his life so angered both that, had Mr. Peter been present when honest Charlie the Indian made his communication, one of them would most certainly have gone for him in true Etonian style, and the man would have been hardly presentable at court for a fortnight after at the least.

"d.i.c.k," said Roland, the red blood mounting to his brow, the fire seeming to scintillate from his eyes. "d.i.c.k, old man, what do you advise?"

"I know what I should like to do," answered d.i.c.k, with clenched fist and lowered brows.

"So do I, d.i.c.k; but that might only make matters worse.

"But Heaven keep me calm, old man," he continued, "for now I shall send for Peter and have it out with him. Not at present, you say? But, d.i.c.k, I am all on fire. I must, I shall speak to him. Charlie, retire; I would not have Mr. Peter taking revenge on so good a fellow as you."

At d.i.c.k's earnest request Roland waited for half an hour before he sent for Peter.

This gentleman advanced from the camp fire humming an operatic air, and with a cigar in hand.

"Oh, Mr. Peter," said Roland, "I was walking near your sleeping place of last night and picked this up."

He held up the little bamboo spear.

"What is it?" said Peter. "An arrow? I suppose some of the Indians dropped it. I never saw it before. It seems of little consequence," he continued, "though I dare say it would suffice to pink a rat with."

He laughed lightly as he spoke. "Was this all you wanted me for, Mr.

St. Clair?"

He was handling the little spear as he spoke. Next moment:

"Merciful Father!" he suddenly screamed, "I have p.r.i.c.ked myself! I am poisoned! I am a dead man! Brandy-- Oh, quick-- Oh--!"

He said never a word more, but dropped on the moss as if struck by a dum-dum bullet.

And there he lay, writhing in torture, foaming at the mouth, from which blood issued from a bitten tongue.

It was a ghastly and horrible sight. Roland looked at d.i.c.k.

"d.i.c.k," he said, "the man knew it was poisoned."

"Better he should die than Brawn."

"Infinitely," said Roland.

CHAPTER XIX--STRUGGLING ONWARDS UP-STREAM

"But," said Roland, "it would be a pity to let even Peter die, as we may have need of him. Let us send for Charlie at once. Perhaps he can tell us of an antidote."

The Indian was not far off.

"Fire-water", was his reply to d.i.c.k's question, "and dis."

"Dis" was the contents of a tiny bottle, which he speedily rubbed into the wound in Peter's hand.

The steward, as one of the men was called, quickly brought a whole bottle of rum, the poisoned man's jaws were forced open, and he was literally drenched with the hot and fiery spirit.

But spasm after spasm took place after this, and while the body was drawn up with cramp, and the muscles knotted and hard, the features were fearfully contorted.

By Roland's directions chloroform was now poured on a handkerchief, and after this was breathed by the sufferer for a few minutes the muscles became relaxed, and the face, though still pale as death, became more sightly.

More rum and more rubbing with the antidote, and Mr. Peter slept in peace.

About sunrise he awoke, cold and s.h.i.+vering, but sensible.

After a little more stimulant he began to talk.

"Bitten by a snake, have I not been?"

"Mr. Peter," said Roland sternly, "you have narrowly escaped the death you would have meted out to poor Brawn with your cruel and accursed arrow.

"You may not love the dog. He certainly does not love you, and dogs are good judges of character. He tree'd you, and you sought revenge. You doubtless have other reasons to hate Brawn, but his life is far more to us than yours. Now confess you meant to do for him, and then to make your way down-stream by stealing a canoe."

"I do not, will not confess," cried Peter. "It is a lie. I am here against my will. I am kidnapped. I am a prisoner. The laws of even this country--and sorry I am ever I saw it--will and shall protect me."